


Problem Solved

by ChasingLuna94, poeticapayge



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 14:44:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1902927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChasingLuna94/pseuds/ChasingLuna94, https://archiveofourown.org/users/poeticapayge/pseuds/poeticapayge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Mary have divorced and John moved back in with Sherlock. An unfortunate circumstance leads to unexpected results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Problem Solved

It was a perfectly normal morning in 221b Baker Street. One sandy haired doctor was drinking his morning tea, no sugar, dash of milk, and writing his thoughts in his blog. His best friend, one dark haired detective, was leaving his morning coffee, black with two sugars, untouched while he peered down his nose into the eyepiece of a microscope. The last case the two worked finished nearly a week ago and Sherlock was getting back to his experiments to stave off his boredom. John, on the other hand, was perfectly content to write up the case details, grandmother killed her step-grandson because he said nasty things about her and his mother, discipline gone wrong, and keep after his flatmate.  
“Sherlock, your coffee is getting cold,” John said absentmindedly, tapping away at the keys. The last bits of the case were shaping up in the entry, but he couldn't quite find a way to phrase the bit about the discipline.  
Sherlock didn't even look up, but instead waved his hand in dismissal at the comment, “Irrelevant, John. I'm busy,” he mumbled into the microscope. He didn't even flinch when a large, heavy hand knocked loudly on the door. Both men were too engrossed in their work to bother with the door.  
“SHERLOCK?! JOHN?!” the gruff voice of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade called from the doorstep, “OPEN UP!”  
“Get the door, John. Lestrade is quite distracting, and I'm busy cataloging data,” Sherlock muttered in annoyance. Lestrade continued to pound on the door.  
John reluctantly rose from the desk chair, muttering something about a pain in the arse, and opened the door to a grim looking DI. “Thank bloody heavens, he's driving me nuts,” he smirked toward Sherlock and shrugged when his comment went unnoticed, “You didn't have to beat the bloody door down, though, mate. What's so important?”  
Greg stepped across the threshold of the flat, grim look still plastered on his face, “I'm so sorry, mate,” he placed his hand gently and apologetically on his arm.  
“Sherlock,” Johns voice cracked with worry at the look on Lestrade's face, “it would seem that Greg has a case that is, ahem, potentially upsetting,” All that could be heard was the scrape then bang of the chair as Sherlock scooted out of it then knocked it over. A sharp tinkle of glass on plastic echoed through the kitchen as slides were slid into a wastebasket. The mad detective appeared with a flourish of his blue silk dressing gown and began to stare down their tentative friend.  
“A case? Please don't be boring, Graham. I'm so bored already...” Sherlock pestered, leaning too far into Greg's personal space.  
“It's Greg, Sherlock. And I'm afraid you aren't going to like this one, John. I barely made it through myself. Sherlock's eyebrows raised in expectation.  
“Why am I not going to like it, Greg?” John asked cautiously.  
“I know you two weren't on the best of terms, mate, but I regret to inform you that your ex-wife, Mary Watson nee Morstan, is deceased,” his somber tone vibrated through John like a pebble in a hollow tree. All of the color drained out of the doctor's face until he was whiter than a sheet and nearly transparent.  
“Wha- what happened?” John whispered in between shakily drawn breaths. His balance had forsaken him as he swayed on his feet, threatening to topple directly into his flatmate. Both Sherlock and Greg reached forward to steady him.  
“She was, um, found dead in an apartment near Canary Wharf. CSU and the Uni's are still there collecting evidence,” His grim look deepened.  
“Who? When? Why? How?” John glared daggers at Lestrade, demanding answers.  
“She's been dead for a few hours. Three visible bullet wounds, two in the chest, one to the head. Unfortunately, we have no leads; that's why we- I came to you,” He turned to Sherlock with an apologetic look that was lost on its recipient.  
“Breathe, John. Oxygen deprivation hardly helps matters,” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.  
John directed his gaze toward Sherlock, but it was obvious that the doctor was not registering anything and was more looking through everything. He turned on his heels and bolted upstairs to his bedroom.  
“I better follow him,” Greg offered but was stopped by Sherlock's long-fingered hand square in the middle of his chest.  
“Better not, Gor- Lestrade. Let me handle it,” came the detective's reply. Sherlock began up the stairs after John, calling his name.  
When Sherlock reached the door of John's bedroom, he was surprised to find the door ajar. With a slight push, it opened with a creak and the picture before him almost stunned him into silence. John was sitting at the edge of his small, neatly-made bed with his head in his hands. There were slight damp spots on his trousers where tears had fallen.  
“Are you going to be okay?” Sherlock reached out awkwardly toward John like he wanted to put his arm around him, but moved no closer than the doorway. The worried tone in his voice caused John to look up. His face was red and puffy with tear streaks on both cheeks, but the fractured man in front of Sherlock disappeared in an instant and was replaced with Captain John Watson, hardened soldier. He stood decisively and marched toward the door.  
“Let's go get this rotten son of a bitch,” John's “soldier voice” laced with anger and despair, a lethal combination. He too received Sherlock's hand to his chest, and a stern look from the perturbed detective.  
“You're not coming, John,” he replied determinedly.  
“Listen here, Sherlock,” John gave Sherlock a hard look and an even harder tone, “I may not have been able to love Mary like I should have, but I'll be damned if the person I do care about goes after some psycho killer without me,” the sudden silence punctuated only by John's heavy breathing.  
“John, there is no possible way that you can be rational about this and I cannot all- wait, what?” he stuttered quite uncharacteristically over the last word.  
“You really can be quite thick sometimes, Sherlock. You know that? And don't make me repeat myself... You say it makes me sound boring,” John smiled smugly at the now truly stunned consulting detective.  
“Please elaborate, John,” Sherlock was still rooted to the spot.  
“It was always you, you daft man. From the moment we met it was always you, and Mary saw it before I did. That's why we divorced, Sherlock, she knew I would always choose you and she was jealous. I couldn't love her when I was already so helplessly in love with you,” his quirky half smile and shy eyelash batting punctuated his startling confession.  
John started forward and tried to push past Sherlock to inform Greg that they were taking the case, but his way was blocked by the floundering madman. Sherlock opened and closed his mouth trying to find the words to say, but was at a loss. He snagged John's wrist on the way past, impeding his movement once again.  
“You love me?” his voice coming out a full octave lower than his normal baritone register. His question is received with a raised eyebrow and a questioning smirk, “You cannot love me, John. The signs are just not there. Your heart rate is almost alarmingly normal at all times, your pupils don't dilate in my presence. I thought I had this figured out and resolved all those years ago at Angelo's,” the baffled detective began muttering less than intelligible words to himself.  
His muttering was interrupted by John grabbing the collar of his purple shirt and pulling him in for a brief but bruising kiss. Sherlock's full lips were smashed against the doctor's thin ones and the breath had been knocked out of both of them. When John pulled away, Sherlock, mouth agape, was incapable of moving from his spot. John managed to push past him and practically skipped downstairs to inform DI Lestrade about their acceptance of the case.  
John returned a few moments later, his determined look back on his face, to discover a prone Sherlock on his bed. His eyes were closed and moving rapidly beneath his eyelids, the index and middle finger of each hand pressed to his temples. He was undeniably in his mind palace, sorting through the data influx that had occurred only moments ago.  
“Sherlock, we have to go, and you're wrinkling my bed,” John whines, annoyed that he has to make his bed again before they leave.  
“I'm... processing, John. I need... I need time. I'll make your bed later... Have to catalog data...” Sherlock's words were disconnected with the effort of data sorting.  
John smiled at his incapacitated friend and popped back downstairs to inform the detective that they would be along shortly. About ten minutes later, a tired looking Sherlock stumbled down the flight of stairs and was greeted by the familiar sounds of clinking china. John had made himself busy with the familiar task of brewing tea, as his had gone cold. Greg was only a few minutes gone, but that did not stop Sherlock in his plan. He took the teapot from John and pulled him in by his jumper for another kiss. He put the teapot on the kitchen table and placed his hand gently on the back of John's neck, tracing his hairline with the edge of his index finger. John felt a shiver roll down his spine at the intimate touch and his body reacted on instinct. His newly freed hand slid upwards to entwine itself in the dark curls of his partner, the other coming to rest on his hip, fingers curling gently into the skin.  
Sherlock's tongue traced the edge of John's lower lip, for once waiting patiently for an invitation. He let go of John's jumper and pulled him closer by his backside, trying to make his desperation clear. John was more than happy to oblige, opening his mouth and letting their tongues slide against each other in a sensual dance. His grip in Sherlock's hair tightened and Sherlock's hips bucked involuntarily against John's thigh. He snagged John's lower lip with his teeth and traced the waistband of John's jeans with feather light fingers, sending another round of shiver's up John's spine. The sound that released itself from John's lips was almost a moan, but it hitched itself in the back of his throat. The buttons on Sherlock's shirt were no match for the nimble fingers of a doctor, but Sherlock stilled the hands undoing his shirt when a familiar tapping filled the stairwell.  
“Mycroft...” Sherlock hissed the name between his teeth like it was the dirtiest word he could think of. Before Sherlock could react, John had straightened his jumper and re buttoned Sherlock's shirt. He had just picked up the teapot when the elder Holmes brother strolled in like he owned the flat. John turned toward him with a fake smile plastered to his face and held out a mug.  
“Would you like a cuppa, Mycroft?” John inquired, slightly out of breath.  
“No, thank you, Dr. Watson. Although, my apologies on the rather... unfortunate death of your lady friend,” he smiled politely at John then directed his attention toward Sherlock, “Brother dear, a word if you please?” he gestured toward the hall with his umbrella.  
“Sod off, Mycroft. I'm busy,” Sherlock retorted curtly and flourished away to plop himself in a kitchen chair once more.  
“I appreciate the sentiment, Mycroft, but I would much prefer you condolences after I have the mangy bastard that killed my ex-wife in my hands. As for you, Sherlock, play nice,” John reprimanded Sherlock very rarely, but usually never meant it when he did. This time was no different.  
While Mycroft nodded in acknowledgment, John and Sherlock exchanged a silent conversation which consisted mostly of Sherlock asking John why he had to bother to play nice and John reminding his that he just had to or they would never resume where they left off. This shut Sherlock up almost instantly.  
“Sherlock, brother mine, this may actually hold some interest with you,” Mycroft flashed his brother his most smug smile, “You could prove yourself useful in the tracking of said criminal, and there is always the matter of the Young Mister Watson to discuss...” both Sherlock and John's eyes narrowed at the mention of Hamish.  
“Where is he?” John's posture was rigid as he turned toward the eldest Holmes.  
“Oh, he is perfectly safe. Not to worry. There is just the small matter of releasing him to you that needs to be resolved,” his smarmy grin spread wider as a scowl crept its way onto Sherlock's lips.  
“Why is there a problem?” John was nearly shaking again.  
“Mycroft!” Sherlock nearly shouted.  
John put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and leaned in toward Mycroft, speaking so softly that it was nearly missed by both parties, “Was he there? Did he see it happen?”  
When Mycroft nodded, it was Sherlock's turn to go ghostly pale. He tried to search John's face for a reaction or emotions that would indicate imminent violence. Not that Sherlock particularly planned to stop John if he decided to punch Mycroft. The entertainment value of which would be off the charts.  
“Unfortunately, your son cannot be released to you due to your choice in flatmates. With my brother being a former cocaine addict and the suspect in a multitude of murders, social services does not have the greatest of faith in Sherlock,”  
John's fists clench and Sherlock flinches slightly at the increase in pressure on his collarbone, “Where is he, Mycroft?” John threatened through clenched teeth.  
“He is safe, as I said,” Mycroft replied.  
“Bloody hell, Mycroft, I've been clean for over six and a half years now, and you might wish to consider disclosing the location of the child before John resorts to physical violence. I can feel his muscles coiling to strike and you are mistaken if you think I will stop him or stand in his way,” Mycroft rolled his eyes, but were blown wide when John snatched him by his collar and shoved him to the wall, feet barely touching the ground.  
“Where. Is. My. SON?!” John spat angrily at Mycroft, successfully becoming Captain Watson once again.  
“I told you,” Sherlock gloated.  
“Dr. Watson, I would advise you release me. Your son is being held by social services at New Scotland Yard,” his grip on his umbrella tightened, preparing to incapacitate the infuriated doctor if he was not released soon. Much to Sherlock's surprise and chagrin, John's grip loosened, and he slumped backward toward the counter. After a minute or two of angry silence, John pulled on his shoes haphazardly, not even bothering to check if they were tied, and bolted out the door to the flat, hollering for Sherlock to follow. It took him a moment, but Sherlock managed to ditch his dressing gown and pull on his shoes in record time and caught up with John on the last few steps. He grabbed John's hand and pulled him to a stop.  
“John, you need to be tactful about this,” he warned, “I know you want him back, but caution is of the essence,” The hard, wild look in John's eyes softened as he laced his fingers with Sherlock's.  
“With your great, beautiful brain, there's no way I won't get him back,” John said confidently. He turned to open the door, but was met with a surprised looking Lestrade, hand outstretched to knock, and beside him, hiding behind his leg, was Hamish. The three year old boy bolted from behind the DI and directly into his father's arms, sobbing hysterically.  
Sherlock took this as his cue to leave and whispered to John, “Now is not the time,” He retreated back upstairs to the flat which left John and Greg alone with Hamish and questions.  
“Is my boy here to stay, or is this little visit just to show me that he's okay?” John asked harshly.  
“I got orders from my higher-ups to bring him to Baker Street, beyond that, I haven't the foggiest,” Greg shrugged and reached to pat the boy on the head, “Poor tyke's been through a lot,”  
“Can he come inside or do you have to leave with him now?” John now had his son's hand and was clinging to it for dear life.  
“Like I said, mate, I just got orders to bring him here. Got nothing beyond that, so inside's fine I guess. Got tea? Or a beer?”  
“Both,” John turned with his child on his hip and followed the path Sherlock had taken upstairs. The trio walked in on the Holmes brothers mid argument.  
“It shouldn't MATTER about me, Mycroft! He's John's child and John is a bloody perfect father!” Sherlock bellowed mere inches from his brother's face. Mycroft took a half step back.  
“Calm yourself, brother mine. It appears we now have an audience, and we would not want to make a negative impression on our young friend. Ah, Gregory! So glad to see your supervisor heeded my suggestion,” the epitome of smug expressions had found its way onto Mycroft's pasty face. John shot a glare in his direction then set his son on his feet in order to make introductions.  
“Sherlock, this is my son Hamish, and Hamish, this is Sherlock,” the young boy's face lit up in a smile as he tottered over to Sherlock.  
“Da!” he squealed and wrapped his arms around one of Sherlock's long legs.  
“No, Hamish. It's Sher-lock,” the detective said slowly, trying to get his point across, “John, is there something wrong with him? Why will he not let go of my leg?”  
John smirks and kneels to talk to his son,”Hamish, who am I?”  
“Da!” Hamish laughs.  
“And who is he?” he points at Sherlock.  
“Da!” Sherlock gets a look of shock on his face.  
“Good, and who is that, Hamish?” He directs his finger at Mycroft.  
“Unka My My!” he beamed happily at Mycroft who shrank back like he'd been shocked. Sherlock and John burst into a fit of hysterical giggles, which only made the three year old laugh more.  
When the laugh riot had calmed down, and everyone's face had returned to a normal shade, Sherlock pulled John aside to ask him more questions.  
“Why does he think I'm his father too?” he asked in a hushed whisper, “I've only ever met him once,”  
“Mary taught him that. Aside from the shock value she thought she would be around to see,” John looked at the ground with a sad expression and sniffled, “she told Hamish that if anything were to happen to her, he would be going to live with his dads John and Sherlock. And not to mess with Uncle Mycroft's umbrella,” he finished with a rueful smile.  
“But why did she bother? I thought she resented me,” Sherlock blushed a deep shade of pink.  
“Like I said before, luv, she didn't resent you. She was jealous of you... of what you meant to me,”  
Sherlock pulled John in for a kiss in spite of their audience. His fingers wrapped around the base of John's neck and pulled him closer, molding him to his lean frame. Hamish's giggle drew John's attention and he pushed back slightly to follow his son's movement. Hamish had waddled over to Mycroft and was raising his arms expectantly. John pecked Sherlock on the lips as he turned slightly to stare at Mycroft.  
Much to the surprise of the entire room, Mycroft lifted the small boy and set him on his hip, “Well, hello young Mr. Watson. I suppose I really am your uncle now,” he smiled gently down at the boy in his arms.  
John tried to hold back tears, but they were still pooling at the corners of his eyes. Sherlock on the other hand, had his jaw on the floor in absolute shock at the expression of sentiment from his older, more stoic brother. John looked at Sherlock, “Ready to catch a killer?” He turned to Mycroft and gave him a stern look, “Protect him,”  
“If I find one hair on our son's head out of place Mycroft, I will have your arse,” Sherlock threatened, “Come Lestrade, the game... is ON!”


End file.
